


Contact

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alien Castiel, Kidnapping, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:43:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When aliens land on Earth the first time, Dean ignores it. When they land a second time, he's a little curious. When the third landing happens in his back yard, his life gets very complicated, very fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Lily, Jenny, Wish, and everyone who I bounced ideas off of for this fic!
> 
> And also to cloudsiterations, my spectacular artist!!!

 

When the first wave of the Ankero landed on Earth (or, at least, the first that could be verified and recorded), Dean Winchester was asleep in a motel room, halfway around the world. No one was ready for it, and he didn’t even know it had happened until he turned on the TV the next morning.

When the second wave of the Ankero hit, just a few hundred miles away from him, Dean Winchester was knee-deep in a muddy rut, trying to push his car back onto the wet, wet roads. He heard the news through the glass from the Impala’s radio, that they’d landed in Canada, this time, scattered across Ontario and Quebec and Alberta, and he wondered why they were here.

The third time? Well, the third time’s the one he’ll remember.

***

“ _Shit!_ ” Dean curses, fumbling for the book that’s tumbling to the ground. “Fuck, dude, where the hell did you come from?”

The man stares at him from just inches away, seemingly unaware that people don’t just fucking _appear_ out of thin air, or that if they _do_ , they should at least have the good sense to apologize to the poor son of a bitch they startled.

“Hello, Dean,” says the man, calm, and catches the book neatly with an outstretched hand. 

“Uh,” Dean stares at him. “Who are you? Why do you know my name?”

The man cocks his head to the side, and Dean takes a moment to take in the whole picture. He’s about Dean’s height, maybe a little shorter, though he’s got hair that’s a little out of control and might push him above Dean in the height game. Dean could probably take him, he thinks, but it wouldn’t be an easy fight.

“Castiel,” says the man, “And I know you, Dean Winchester.”

“Casti–oh, _crap._ ” Dean steps back, turning the strange name over in his head, taking in the rumpled clothes and the eyes that glow just a little too bright for the light to be just reflected. The air smells of ozone and something else that’s nothing he’s ever smelled before, and he realizes with a sinking feeling what’s going on. “You’re one of the aliens, right? The, uh, Akira?”

“Ankero,” corrects the man– _Castiel_ –and Dean realizes the guy’s still holding the book out to him, and he’s just standing there in the morning sun like an idiot. Then he remembers that he’s talking to an _alien_ and he feels a little better about completely panicking.

Still, Mary Winchester didn’t raise her sons to leave somebody hanging like that. He takes the book carefully, by the corner, not touching the alien’s hand. “Thanks,” he says, cautious.

“You’re welcome.” Castiel leans closer, eyes fixed on Dean’s, and Dean can feel his face reddening under the inspection. “And yes.” He smiles, though it’s barely a twitch of his lips. “You are my charge.”

That’s the thing about the Ankero, Dean remembers, letting the question that’d been floating at the edge of his mind rise up. They aren’t here to talk with Humanity-with-a-capital-H. Each individual makes some kind of bond with a human, latches on to them and uses them as their gateway to the human world. Not much is known about all this; there’ve only been a couple of landings, all in the last few weeks, and while the story’s been sensational, the reporting hasn’t actually had much in the way of substance. So yeah, Dean’s first thought wasn’t _I’m the chosen one for this guy and now I’ve gotta teach him about human crap_. More like _oh shit I hope this is more Zephram Cochran and less Ellen Ripley._  

He remembers the newscaster, that hot brunette one in Michigan, saying that no matter what the chosen person did, the alien stayed nearby until they finally relented and answered a few questions. Then the alien backed off, staying within a few hundred yards but not right up in their business. Dean figures that’s probably the safest bet here, to just go along with it. _It’s not like I had big plans for the day,_ he thinks. _Not that I have much in the way of plan any day, unless Vic needs me._

Now that the reports are coming back to him with what few details they’d had of the less-than-a-hundred aliens spread across the planet, he’s got to wonder. Why the hell did this alien dude pick _him_ of all people on Earth? Most of the new stories he’s seen have featured physicists or doctors or that one hacker chick Charlie who’d become the favorite of the internet. But why _Dean Winchester_ , of all people?

“You were chosen. You are a good man,” says Castiel, eyes boring holes into Dean’s face. He narrows his eyes. “Why don’t you believe that?”

Dean’s not sure how to answer, so instead, he turns to the Impala. “Gonna start raining in a minute,” he says, walking around the the passenger door. Castiel follows him closely. “So unless your freaky alien powers include being waterproof, I suggest you get in.” Castiel nods and sits carefully on the leather, trenchcoat crumpled beneath him. Dean stares at him a moment then shuts the door and walks around, sliding behind the wheel. “And dude, stop _staring._ ”

***

Dean’s supposed to report the landing to someone. He’s pretty sure about that. There’s been a phone number read out on the TV and radio news, but he didn’t bother to write it down. He’s even pretty sure it’s 1-800-MY-ALIEN, or 866-WEIRD-CRAP or something like that.

But he’s had a long fucking week, it's Friday, he's finally done with the assignment he's been on all week, and the idea of the media circus that would descend on him if he called someone is not all that appealing. Let people who like seeing their faces on the news have the attention. He’s just gonna go about his business and try to ignore the alien trailing after him. So they go to the supermarket, to the carwash, and finally head back to Dean’s crappy apartment. They don’t even get any funny looks; Castiel could be an eccentric, off-duty professor in that getup, and it’s a big enough town that no one knows Dean, and that’s how he likes it.

Castiel seems fine with this plan, and Dean’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to _do_ with the alien. He’s not all that disruptive, not asking questions or demanding to be shown how to work a shower or how to build a nuclear device. Instead, he’s just watching Dean, like he has been for the last four hours of errands and assignments. 

When Victor calls with a job, Dean hesitates for a minute, glancing at Castiel. But the dude’s pychic; it’s not like he didn’t know what he was getting into, latching onto Dean.

So they go. Dean’s a little nervous that having silent, glaring shadow would make getting information from people somewhat harder, but it turns out Cas is actually intimidating, or intimidating enough that Ed and Harry both crack, babbling about the deal that’s going down after just a few minutes. From there, it's just a few quick calls to other contacts while Cas holds each of their collars to keep them from running, then they've got the entire plan. Dean calls Victor, lets him know the details they got (although he leaves out the part where Cas glared them into submission; he's not in the mood to deal with Victor's well-meaning but law-abiding chastisement). Instead, he eats his sandwich sitting on the hood of the Impala with Castiel perched beside him, silently watching the pedestrians enjoying the park they’re beside.

“So Cas,” asks Dean. “Tell me about yourself.”

Castiel turns his gaze on Dean, confusion crossing his face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’ve been hanging out all day and I know pretty much nothing about you, man. You’re learning all this crap about my life, but I’m getting nothing about you. Come on, it’s gotta be more interesting than mine.”

Cas shrugs, the gesture stiff. “I’m not of high rank, Dean. Most of my life is following orders.”

“Yeah?” Dean smiles. “Mine too, lately.”

A little of the stiffness bleeds from Cas’s shoulders and he gives a tiny, tentative smile back.

***

They make it back to Dean’s apartment finally, following Dean’s typical routine, but it seems a lot more productive than usual when he’s got someone else along for the ride.

Along for the ride, _right beside him._

“Cas, man, you gotta back up a little,” says Dean, stepping backwards from the bright blue gaze. “Give a guy some room.”

“My apologies.” Castiel steps back, and Dean escapes the kitchen, two beers in hand. He flops down on the couch and looks expectantly up at Castiel.

“So.”

Castiel sits beside him, carefully. “So?”

“So what do you wanna know?” He pops the caps off the beers and hands one to him. Castiel takes it and moves his gaze to the label instead, scrutinizing it as carefully as he has been Dean all day. "I mean, that's why you're here, right? To learn about us?"

"That's one reason, yes."

"Okay then." Dean leans backing of the couch, spreading his arms. "Hit me."

Castiel's head flies up. "Hit you? Why–"

Dean sighs, shaking his head. "I mean ask me something, Cas. It's an expression."

"Oh." His brow furrows. "I'm not sure what to ask you, Dean. I'm learning enough just by observation."

"Yeah?" Dean's curious. "Enough for what?"

Cas looks away. "Just–enough, I suppose." He avoids Dean's gaze, almost awkwardly, and Dean decides to drop it for the moment.

"Okay, then," he says, digging in his pocket for his phone. "Pizza?"

Cas makes that face, that one Dean's pretty sure means he's digging for information in Dean's brain. 

“Do you even eat?” asks Dean. “Or do you only eat, like, rocks or plutonium or something?”

That makes Cas smile again, that little smile that looks almost like he’s surprised to find it on his face. “Yes, Dean. We can eat. We don’t need to, but we can. I would like to try more Earth food.”

“Now that I can help you with.”  He opens the fridge, reaching inside, and pulls out a bag of cheese and a plastic-wrapped lump of dough. “How do you feel about pizza?” When Cas doesn’t respond, Dean sets the dough on the counter and reaches back in for a package of mushrooms and a stick of pepperoni, then grabs a can of sauce from a cabinet. “We’re gonna go with pepperoni, because it’s traditional, I guess, and I’m gonna throw on some mushrooms because they’re awesome.” He opens the pepperoni’s wrapper and reaches towards the knife drawer, but Cas is already there, opening it and pulling out the exact knife Dean was about to look for.

“Psychic sous chef. Nice.” He accepts it and starts slicing as the oven preheats.

Castiel sits carefully on a stool, elbows on Dean’s countertop, as Dean chops mushrooms. “You enjoy this,” he says, watching carefully. “The process.”

Dean shrugs. “I guess, yeah. Uh, it’s not like I get the chance that often. Mostly I just cook for me these days so I don’t bother with anything complicated.”

“You live alone?”

“Yeah. Since Sam–my brother–moved out a few years back.”

"I was under the impression humans usually don't live with siblings past a certain age." Castiel is completely focused on Dean, and it's both intimidating and kind of exhilarating.

"Well, we're not exactly the Cleavers–it's a TV show," he explains, in answer to Cas's unspoken question. "I mean, we aren't your typical family." He moves on to the pepperoni, slicing it thin. "How about you, Cas? Got a wife and kids back home? Or do you guys bud or something?" He's suddenly struck with an image of Cas, face stoic, slowly splitting down the middle into two identical copies and he can't help laughing a little. Then he catches sight of Cas's horrified face–he’s obviously picked up on the image–and breaks into full on giggles. 

Cas stares a moment, leaning down and checking Dean's face, but then he smiles too, white teeth showing between pink lips. "Not exactly."

"I guess that's probably not dinner conversation on your homeworld, either," says Dean, chuckles subsiding. "Sorry, man."

Cas shakes his head, still smiling. "It's all right, Dean." He reaches out tentatively and pokes at the ball of dough. "What would you like done with this?"

Dean passes him a rolling pin.

***

Dean knows Castiel is an alien, but he isn't really sure he gets what that means. It's too big, too _weird._ Cas is mostly just a kind of weird, kind of cool dude who’s hanging out with him for some reason. But now Dean’s _sure_ he’s an alien, because he just consumed three entire pizzas without a single sign of discomfort. They’ve been sitting on the couch, watching a marathon of the _X-Files_ for no reason (or maybe just for the irony). Cas is enjoying it, or at least he’s engaged; his dry comments about the aliens and monsters portrayed have Dean snorting into his drink. 

Cas has also made his way through about a dozen beers to Dean’s four, and now they’re both starting to feel it.

“This is an odd feeling,” Castiel mumbles, sliding down the couch a little until his head’s flopped back on top of the cushion. “It’s like flying, but we’re not going anywhere.”

Dean chuckles. “Man, you guys don’t have beer?” He shakes his head, shifting to get comfortable. “I like this much better than flying.”

“Not like _that._ ” Cas’s face scrunches up in disgust at the thought of planes. “I mean _our_ kind of flying. With wings.”

“Wait.” Dean turns, pulling a leg up on the couch, until he’s facing Castiel. “Hold up, you have _wings?_ ”

“Of course I do,” replies Cas, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as he leans forward again and pokes at the keyboard of Dean’s laptop. “How else would I fly?” He’s distracted now, his answers perfunctory, as he studies Dean’s computer screen. 

Dean tries to get a look at it, wondering what’s caught his attention, and then remembers exactly what he’d been watching that morning before heading out and running into Cas. He reaches over and shuts the computer hurriedly. _Cas so doesn’t need to learn about hentai,_ he thinks, and tries to focus back on their conversation. “Uh, you’d fly in a ship, I guess? Hold on, does that mean you came here _without a ship?_ ” Suddenly Dean’s remembering a radio broadcast he caught the tail end of in a gas station, talking about how weird it was that no UFOs had been spotted and no spaceships had been tracked.

Castiel narrows his eyes, leaning close to Dean and swaying slightly. “Of course. You leave your planet in vehicles as well.” He sounds astonished. “I suppose you’d have to, fragile creatures that you are.”

“Hey! I’m not _fragile_.” Dean shoves at Cas’s shoulder, but the alien doesn’t move even a millimeter. It’s like shoving a brick wall. He tries again, but still, nothing. “Jesus, dude, you made of stone or something?”

“No, mostly carbon,” Cas replies, turning those bright eyes on Dean. “much like you.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s very close now, closer than he remembers getting, and Cas’s shoulder is very warm under his hand. “So we’re not that different, besides the flying and the alien planets and all that?”

Cas shakes his head. eyes fixed on Dean’s, and Dean tries desperately to shove down the really, truly inappropriate thoughts he’s having about someone who’s not even a member of his _species_.

That’s when Cas leans in, carefully, slowly, with all the determination of a drunk person, and kisses him.

It takes a minute for Dean to react. _This is not what the radio said would happen_ , he thinks vaguely, nonsensically. But Cas is _hot_ , and he’s funny in a weird, understated way, and the last day (has it only been a day?) has been one of the most awesome Dean’s had in a while. It’s not that they’ve done that much, but somehow, having this weird, fascinating friend who can see inside his head means he doesn’t have to hide anything. He would have thought being near a psychic would freak him out, make him want to put a lead box over his head, Magneto-style, but instead, it’s like he’s getting sunlight in all the dusty corners of his mind.

And really, the idea that he’s not from this _planet_ , that of all the people in the world he picked _Dean_ –it’s kind of super hot and super flattering at the same time.

So he goes with it, opening up to Cas’s kiss. _Close your eyes, Cas_ , he thinks, experimentally, and Cas’s eyes slip closed, agreeably, and Dean lets himself fall into it. His hands settle in the small of Cas’s back, brushing little circles with his thumbs against the material of Cas’s trenchcoat (and where the hell did he even find this getup?).

 _It manifested when I arrived_ , says a voice in his head, and Dean jumps back. 

“Whoa,” he says, staring at Cas. “Wait, you can talk to me? In my head?”

Cas blinks. “What?”

“I heard you, just now. Saying your clothes manifested themselves or something. What the hell, Cas?”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “That–that shouldn’t happen. You’re human, you shouldn’t be able to–”

There’s a flapping sound, like wings, and Cas is gone.

“Cas?” asks Dean, staring at the empty space. “Cas?!”

There’s no answer.

***

Three hours later, Dean’s really getting worried. There’s no sign of Cas, and he’s been googling like crazy and finding no evidence that ony other Ankero has done anything but stick with their chosen human. His buzz is _gone_ , and he’s tried everything he can think of. He’d even tried calling the official number, but when he’d told them his alien had vanished, they’d actually _scolded_ him for lying and wasting their time. Apparently, they get a lot of crank calls with fake landings.

And now, he’s not sure what to do.

So he rubs a hand over his face and grabs his phone, hitting the first speed dial button. Sam picks up just before voicemail does, voice distracted. “Hey, Dean,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Hey, so, uh, weird thing going on here,” says Dean.

“Can it wait? I’m kind of, um, on a date.”

Dean sits up straight. “Seriously? Good for you, man! Who is she? Is she hot?”

He can almost _hear_ Sam’s eyes rolling. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“No, wait, Sam–”

“Yeah?” Sam’s voice is exasperated.

“Dude, I hate to interrupt your _date_ , but, uh–” he swallows. “So I had a close encounter.”

“You _what?_ ” Suddenly Sam’s voice is much more focused, the _nerd_. “Dean, you’re not saying–”

“Yeah, man, the guy–this Ankero–he showed up this morning, spent the day following me, and then–” he hesitates. “He, uh, disappeared a few hours ago.”

“What do you mean, disappeared? They don’t–”

“I _know_ , Sam! That’s why I’m calling you, because you’re an alien geek. You know shit. How do I find him? Where did he go?”

“Hold on,” says Sam. “Just–are you at home?”

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Yeah, I’m in my living room.”

“Okay. Don’t go _anywhere._ I’ll be there in like fifteen minutes.”

“Hey, no, what about the date?”

He can _hear_ Sam’s grin through the phone. “She’ll understand. I met her at the lab.”

“Ah, another alien-nerd. Nice, Sammy.” 

“Yeah, yeah. See you soon, Dean.” There’s a click as Sam hangs up the phone.

Dean feels better with Sam on the way, though he'd never admit as much to him. Sam's been _ridiculous_ since all this alien bullcrap started. He's been all about space and extraterrestrials and all that shit since he was a kid, and now that he works for NASA and now that aliens are actually a _thing_ it's just gotten worse. Dean's pretty sure the kid's crushed, deep down, that Dean got his very own alien first.

It's actually almost twenty minutes till Sam shows, eyes wide and hair a wreck over a sweater and pressed slacks. He stares at Dean as he bursts into the living room, and Dean raises his eyebrows. "Really, Sam? That's your big date outfit? Come on, you aren't getting laid looking like some kind of nutty professor reject."

Sam stares at him. "You met an _alien_ , and you're criticizing my _outfit?_ "

"Even Cas would probably know not to dress like that for a date."

"Cas?"

"Uh, Castiel. The alien."

"The one you're missing."

"Yeah." Dean shifts uncomfortably. "I'm just–I'm getting kinda worried, you know? Everything I read said they stick around once they land."

Sam frowns and settles into the couch. "Yeah, no. All of the ones who've been reported have stayed within at most a hundred yards or so from their chosen humans. Even the first ones, who got here like three weeks ago, are still staying nearby." He shakes his head. "I dunno, Dean. You sure he's one of them? Not just a guy playing a trick on you?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude, the guy can _teleport_ and _read my mind._ I'm pretty sure he's not some creep faking it."

"He could be, Dean. You never know. Some guys are pretty fast, and pretty smooth. Remember how Bela used to con people? He could have waited–"

Dean's already shaking his head. "I _saw_ him, Sam. One second he was there in front of me, and the next, _poof._ Nothing. No sparkly Star Trek glitter, no smoke, no mirrors. Just gone." He glares at Sam. “And it was _not_ one of Bela’s kind of tricks. Come on, Sam.”

"Wait a minute." Sam leans closer. "Wait. You mean you actually _saw_ it happen? Saw him disappear?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So no ones seen that before, Dean! They always wait until your back is turned or your attention is pulled away or whatever! They never, _never_ teleport in front of humans. Ever."

"Obviously they do, because Cas did." Dean's starting to get annoyed. "Are you gonna help me find my missing Martian or not?"

But Sam won't budge from the conversation. "So let me get this straight. You were looking right at him when he appeared?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "No. When he disappeared. There was a noise, like flapping or something, and he was there one minute and gone the next. Just like that."

"Flapping? Like wings?"

"Yeah, I guess that's what it was. He said flying that way makes a lot more sense than our way, and I'll admit I gotta give him that." Sam is gaping at him and Dean frowns. "What? Dude, it's unnatural, riding in a giant metal tube–"

"Dean," interrupts Sam. "This is– I gotta get back to the lab. This changes everything." He leaps up, grabbing his bag. "I'll call you, okay?"

Dean trails after him. "What the hell, Sam?" He asks, but the door swings shut and he hears the _chirp_ of Sam's stupid little electric car starting up. He gets to the window just in time to see the car peeling out of the driveway.

He calls Sam a few times, but it doesn't even ring, just goes straight to voicemail, which usually means Sam is in his lab, deep under DC, where no signal can reach him. Finally he settles for sending him about twenty annoyed texts, since those should pop up all at once when he comes back above ground eventually.

Then he sits down to google the Ankero. _Maybe there's something I'm missing_ , he thinks. _Maybe it's just his check-in time or something_. But nothing comes up, nothing helpful. After a couple hours of weeding through fansites and news reports and even using some of the tricks he's learned from his hacker friend Pamela to break into some of the more secure reports, it's pretty clear that what Cas told him about them? That's more than the _human race_ knew about their visitors. _No wonder Sam had to go to work,_ he thinks, leaning back in his chair and yawning. _Cas is probably fine,_ he tries to reassure himself. _Dudes a grown-ass– whatever he is. He probably had shit to do._

But the image of Cas's face as he teleported away sticks in Dean's head: he'd been shocked, almost frightened, and he'd left with barely a goodbye. Dean's not sure what to make of that, but nothing awesome comes to mind.

He yawns and glances at the clock. It's been six hours, now, and the sun will be coming up soon, and he's still got jack on Cas. He yawns, trying to push down his worry, then stands. _If he's not back in the morning, I'll think of something,_ he thinks, stumbling to his room and collapsing face down in his bed. _I'm sure he's fine._

The hands grab him suddenly, jerking him from a sound, if weird-dream-filled, sleep. His instincts kick in immediately, and he kicks out, earning a surprised _oof_ from someone in the room. But the hands tighten around his wrists, spread-eagling him on the bed, and when he opens his mouth to yell for help a cloth is stuffed into it and he nearly chokes. A smooth, familiar voice whispers in his ear, "I wouldn't if I were you," and then there's a prick in the hollow of his elbow and his bedroom fades away into darkness.

***

The next thing he feels is movement, jolting and bouncing. He's on his side on a hard, moving surface, wrists tied behind his back and ankles fastened together. He tugs experimentally, twisting his wrists back and forth, but there's no give at all to them. His ankles are similarly secured, professionally, tightly without causing damage. 

It's dark, and he's pretty sure he's in the bed of a van going down a bumpy side road. He's got no idea how long he's been out, but he squints at the rest of the space and there's faint light coming from around the edges of what must be the van's back door.

He rolls a little, still fighting wooziness, and is rewarded with the feel of cold metal at the back of his neck. "Ah ah ah," says that same silky British voice. "Stay right where you are, that's a good boy."

He recognizes the voice from somewhere, but his fuzzy, drugged mind can't quite place where. He stays still, and the gun draws back. “Well done. See, you can learn.” He hears the woman shift as the van comes to a halt. The doors open and black-clad figures pull him out, yanking him roughly to his feet. She climbs out behind him, graceful in boots and an outfit better suited to an afternoon of polo or some shit than a middle-of-the-night kidnapping.

There’s just enough light out here that he can see her face. “Bela. I should have fucking known.”

See, Dean’s life is–complicated. These days, he’s a law-abiding citizen. He’s even sort of a law-enforcing citizen, consulting for the police and the FBI and using all his old criminal powers for good. A stint of probation got him this gig, after his PO Benny put him back in touch with Victor at the FBI, and the rest just sort of fell into place. They needed someone who understood the criminal element, and he needed cash and something to do.

But just because he’s on the right side of the law these days doesn’t mean he’s lost all of his history with the area’s less straight-and-narrow community. He’s still got a couple friends he’d rather not own up to to Victor: folks like Jo, who runs a nice racket scamming shitty corporations out of their profits, or like Garth, who–well, Dean’s not actually sure _what_ Garth does. He’s pretty certain it’s illegal, though.

And then there are people like Bela.

Dean worked with Bela on a couple of jobs, back in the day. They were both just kids, then, although really, neither of them had ever actually really been _kids_. But they were young, they were hungry for excitement and wealth and power, and they were _invincible._

Of course, it turned out they weren’t, actually. It’s Bela he has to thank for his new life, ironically enough. It had been Bela who’d run, leaving him in a motel room with a load of stolen property and a SWAT team in the parking lot. 

So even though it’s worked out pretty good for him, Dean thinks he’s got the right to be a little bitter. Especially since Bela apparently now has _goons_. He’s always wanted goons. All he had was Sam, who is awesome, obviously, but never really took direction as well as a good goon can.

But Bela’s doing pretty well for herself these days, looks like, and Dean kind of wishes he’d never seen her again. Here they are, though, sitting in the dim dawn outside some abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere. 

Bela gestures to a goon and he grabs Dean by the shoulder, dragging him up and forward. “Careful, now,” Bela warns. “You wouldn’t want to damage such pretty packaging.” She smiles, all teeth. “You know we need what’s inside.”

Dean stares at her, trying to spit out the cloth in his mouth so he can give her a piece of his mind and also find out what the hell she’s talking about, but the goon just shoves it in deeper until he nearly chokes.

 _Guess it’s a mystery, then_ , he thinks as he’s hustled through a wide set of doors. _Just what I needed._

The warehouse is dimly lit and dingy, and they weave through stacks of crates and old, rusted machinery into an elevator, then down into a small, dirty room.

“Mr. Winchester,” says another smooth, accented voice, and Dean’s getting real tired of British dicks using that ‘movie supervillain with a plan’ tone at him.

He’s pushed down into a chair and a light flickers on, harsh and bright and pointing directly into his eyes.

“Glad you could join us,” the voice continues.

The rag is tugged from Dean’s mouth and he swallows, trying to drum up enough saliva to spit the taste of old, dirty cloth from his mouth.

“I trust our friend Bela here was–” the man hesitates, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice when he continues–” _hospitable._ ”

“Oh, yeah,” says Dean, hoarse. “Yeah, because nothing says hospitality like being tied up in a van.”

The man shrugs. “Well, you’re alive. You're even conscious. That’s more than most of the people Bela brings me can say for themselves.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Bela, inspecting her nails casually. She shrugs when she meets his eyes and he wonders briefly what her life’s been since they split. The Bela he’d known hadn't been all that warm and fuzzy, but she hadn’t been a murderer.

“So you obviously know who I am,” he says, tearing his eyes from Bela and giving the dark figure a cocky smile. “Who the hell are you?”

The man steps closer, into Dean’s spotlight, and Dean gets his first real look at his captor. 

He’s short and a little stout, in a suit that looks pricey and a dark shirt beneath it. He’s probably in his forties, and he’s got dark hair with a scruffy short beard. Dean tries to memorize his face, the way Victor’s taught him, as the guy leans in.

“It’s not important who I am. Think of me as–an interested party. Someone who has heard about your particular gifts and would like to learn more about you.”

 _Gifts?_ thinks Dean. He leans in closer. “You wanna know about me?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Well. I’m an Aquarius–” 

He’s cut off by a hand across his cheekbone and he rocks backwards with its force. 

“Now, now,” says the man. “Let’s go again. What do you know about the Ankero?”

Dean spits, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. “Why? None of them wanna pick you?” He shakes his head. “Man, must be giving you flashbacks to junior high gym class. “He glances at the men behind them. “Looks like you’ve bought yourself some new friends, though.”

The man smiles, but there’s nothing friendly in the expression. “While I appreciate your commitment to the role of ‘plucky prisoner,’ this would be easier for everyone if you cooperated.” His voice turns wheedling. “You could be rewarded very well for your trouble. Like Bela, here. She’s working towards getting something she’s always wanted for bringing you here, aren’t you, Bela?”

Dean glances back, and Bela’s face is tight, drawn, as she nods.

“No thank you,” he says, and the man shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to do it the hard way, then.” He beckons forward a guard, and Dean can see he’s holding a bucket full of water. “Let’s try this again.” He takes the bucket and sets it in front of Dean on the table. The guard moves to stand behind him and Dean tenses. “How did you catch the alien teleporting?”

Dean shrugs, as much as he can with his hands tied tightly behind his back, and a palm shoves his face down, down until his face is submerged.

 _Well this is great,_ he thinks as he sputters and tries not to breathe in too much water. _How you gonna get yourself outta this one?_

***

He’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s getting real tired of answering over and over just how much he _doesn’t know_ about their unearthly visitors. For now he’s holding out, because he’s had worse in a lifetime of crime followed by a second life of fighting it, but he’s starting to wonder what, exactly, his next move is.

 _Shoulda known better than to blab to Sam,_ he thinks woozily, vision flickering in and out. The guard slams him down on the table, this time, twisting his arm until his shoulder sparks with pain. _Kid works for the government, you think him bursting into his lab in the middle of the night isn’t gonna get noticed? You think he’s got enough street smarts to not write everything down in his notes?_  

As his head is submerged again, a tiny voice in the back of his head wonders if Cas would even care if Dean spilled anything about him. He squashes the voice down, thinking, _Cas is a good guy, and I’m not gonna give this dick any more information about him than he’s already got._

He flinches as the man’s voice sounds in his ear again. “I can do this all night, Dean,” he says, voice almost a purr. “Can you?”

“Look,” says Dean, hoarse. “I don’t know anything. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“‘Subject observed the being dematerialize. Subject also reported a ‘flapping sound’ similar to wings.’ Does that sound familiar to you, Dean?” His voice raises. “Does that sound like someone who _doesn’t know anything?_ ” 

Dean tries to dodge away as the voice gets louder, but he can’t go far. He doesn’t reply.

“Your brother wrote that, you know. Just after he rushed into work on a Friday night. A Friday night for which he had scheduled a date with one–” the man glances down at his notes– “Madison Lupin, with whom he has worked closely for over a year? And for whom, according to multiple co-workers, he has harbored _feelings_ for months?” The man shrugs. “It would be a sweet story, if he hadn’t rushed to your side. Now we’ve got our eye on him, and believe me, we’re watching.”

There’s a buzz of static from one of the guards’ radios, and the sound of conversation too muffled for Dean to understand. His interrogator turns to speak to the guard, voice tense. He’s quiet, but Dean’s got good ears.

“What is it,” he asks.

“The elevator, sir. Someone’s tried to use it. It locked them out, but they overrode its security protocols. They might be inside.”

“What do you mean, _might be_?” He crosses his arms. “We pay your firm for two things: discretion, which, well done, you’ve managed to keep your mouths shut, and _security._ Are you telling me you can’t manage to tell if someone’s broken in or not?”

“Mr. Crowley, sir–”

“Get out.” The interrogator–Crowley– says, voice a whisper. When the guard hesitates, he points a finger at the door, voice rising to a roar. “Get _out_ , and _secure my facility!_ ”

The man goes.

“Now,” says Crowley. “Where were we?”

Dean shrugs. “You were asking me shit I don’t know the answers to.”

“Ah. Right.” Crowley smiles. “Well, we have other methods of making you remember the answers. He turns to a table beside him, one that glints with a little too much metal for Dean’s comfort.

There’s a crash in the hallway and Crowley frowns, slowly spinning around, and suddenly there’s Cas, right in front of him, a long, thin blade in his hand. He whips it around so fast it’s a blur and slits the bindings on Dean’s arms, then hits Crowley on the temple with the butt of it. The man drops, and Cas turns, moving too fast for Dean to follow, and does _something_ that knocks each of the guards down. It’s amazing to watch, like he’s got more limbs than Dean can see, and Dean can’t do anything but stare when Cas finally turns back to him, chest heaving. “ _Dean_ ,” he says, voice deep and full of _something_. “Dean, are you all right?”

Dean shakes the ropes off his arms and stands, rubbing his wrists. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. How about you? I was worried about you, dude. You just took off back there.”

Cas sighs. “I had to speak with someone. It’s not important.” His hand comes up, hovers at Dean’s elbow, then drops, and Dean’s strangely disappointed. He settles instead for reaching out himself and patting Cas roughly on the shoulder. 

“Well, thanks, Cas. That was some nice timing you had there.”

Cas smiles, just a small twitch of his lips, but it’s there. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier. And I’m sorry my presence caused all this.”

Dean’s about to reply when there’s movement that he catches in the corner of his eye. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks Crowley, who freezes, half-crouched on the floor.

Crowley’s eyes dart from Dean’s to Cas’s, then back again, and he eases up slowly into a standing position. Behind him, Dean hears Cas’s trenchcoat rustle as he drops into a defensive pose.

Dean’s stepping forward, about to grab for the man, when Crowley shifts, hitting a bulge in his jacket. A bright light fills the room and Dean yelps, hands flying to cover his eyes. “Fuck!” he yells as the spots clear from his vision. “Cas, you okay?” He spins around, but there’s no sign of Crowley. There’s only one door, which Cas is blocking, so they’ve got nothing, no way of tracking Dean’s captor.

Cas is squinting, fists clenched. “I’m fine, Dean, though my powers of flight are compromised for the next few minutes. Something in that blast of light disrupted their waves.”

“Who the _hell_ are these guys?” says Dean, stepping closer to Cas and checking him over, hands ghosting over Cas’s sides. “And what do you mean, their waves?”

Footsteps ring out in the hallway and Dean tenses, pulling back from Cas, but it’s Sam who bursts through the door.

“Dean!” His brother strides over and wraps him in a bearhug. “Oh my god, Dean, are you okay?”

Dean lets himself relax into the hug for a moment before tensing and pushing Sam away. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, jesus.” He glances back at where Crowley had been. “The guy in charge is gone, though. I dunno how or where, or even who the hell he is.” He tugs at Sam. “Come on, dude. Lemme go.”

Sam holds on tight a minute longer, then lets Dean go, and Dean clears his throat. “Can we get outta here? I’m gonna guess those weren’t the only guys here, and while that was _awesome,_ Cas–” Cas’s eyes crinkle at the corners at this, and Dean can’t help smiling at him– “I don’t think I need a repeat performance.”

Sam nods. “Sounds like a plan. Cas, you wanna lead the way? I think you’ve got a better idea of how this whole place is put together.”

“What my brother is _trying_ to say, Cas, is thanks for saving my ass,” interjects Dean. “Seriously, man, thank you. You didn’t have to.”

Cas shakes his head. “Yes, I did. I told you, it’s my fault you ended up there.”

“No, it’s mine,” says Sam, and Dean rolls his eyes. 

“It’s everyone’s fault, guys. Come on.” He glances from Sam to Cas and back again. “So I guess you two met?”

It’s Cas who replies. “When I returned to your apartment and it was empty and ransacked, I was–” he searches for the word– “worried. I remembered you mentioning Sam, so I went through your papers and found his number. He was surprised to hear from me, but he was very helpful.”

Sam laughs, grinning at Cas. “Uh, yeah, surprised.”

“Sammy geeked out on you?” asks Dean, following Cas as he starts to lead them out.

“Hey, I do this for a _living_ , Dean. Meeting Cas is like meeting a rock star,” interrupts Sam. “Shut up, you’d be excited if I ran into Bon Jovi or something.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t be this dorky about it.”

“Oh yeah? Well my _dorkiness_ saved your ass, so–”

 _“Shhh!”_ whispers Cas, putting out a hand to hold them back. “Someone’s coming.”

The three of themselves press themselves back into the shadows, holding their breath, as footsteps ring out down the hall and pass them by.

“As soon as we’re to ground level I can fly you both out of here,” Cas says, quietly. “I can’t use my wings in a space this confined.”

“So they’re actual, physical wings?” asks Sam as he follows Cas. “Do you have feathers? Where do they go when they’re not being used?”

“Cool it, Sam,” says Dean sharply. “Leave Cas be.”

“It’s all right, Dean,” Cas says as they slip, unnoticed, into the elevator. “Sam is just curious.”

“Yeah, well, he can save it for when we’re _not_ sneaking out of a secret government facility.”

He can hear Sam sigh, loudly, and he can’t help but smile, despite everything.

***

It’s actually weirdly easy to sneak out of the place, and they only have to disable four more guards on the way out. Dean figures it’s because Crowley’s gone; the guy didn’t seem like the type to care about his employees beyond their usefulness to him, and once he discovered they couldn’t hold Dean, they were just collateral. So now the three of them are standing at the warehouse door, the sun shining brightly above them, and Cas is reaching out to clap a hand on his shoulder. 

“Ready?” says Cas, and he doesn’t give them a chance to answer before something grabs Dean behind his sternum and _yanks._ Everything goes dim, then bright, and he gets a glimpse of lights moving too fast for him to see before he shuts his eyes to keep from vomiting.

It seems to go on _forever_ , and somehow it’s also over in an instant and he’s collapsing back against a familiar hood, the Impala’s paint sun-warmed under his palms.

Cas’s hands are curled around his biceps, gentle on his injured shoulder, when he finally opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is worried blue eyes inches from his own. Dean’s head falls forward and brushes Cas’s shoulder as he tries to get his feet back under him to stand, woozy. 

He finally pulls himself upright, and Cas’s hands fall away. “We are _never_ doing that again,” he says, voice weak. “Jesus, Cas. That’s how you fly?”

“Come on, it wasn’t _that_ bad,” says Sam, and his cheeks are pink they way they get when he’s excited, the nerd.

“Dude, I feel like I _died_. Aren’t you even a little woozy?”

Sam shakes his head. “It was incredible! I actually could _feel_ the wave pattern building. It’s all about interference, I think. Cas, do you think I could try it again? Maybe with some equipment?”

Cas shrugs stiffly, and Dean’s pretty sure it’s a gesture he’s learned since he met Dean, which is somehow weirdly endearing. “Perhaps not today, Sam. But yes.” He shakes his head. “Humans and my people have much to teach each other, and I’m very willing to exchange information. Although some of my fellow travellers disagree.”

“Why?” asks Sam, genuinely bewildered, as Cas tugs Dean upright and puts his arm around Dean’s shoulders to help him forward. “I mean, you guys came here, not the other way around.”

“Some believe our secrets should stay secret.”

“Then why even come? It’s not like humans have much to teach you–you can fly across space and read minds. What could humanity possibly have to offer?”

Cas shakes his head. “Sam, you underestimate your race.” He tightens his arm around Dean, warm and present, and Dean can feel the warmth of Cas’s shoulder and arm pressed tight against his own. “Humans are amazingly inventive, and creative, and fascinating.” His breath brushes Dean’s cheek, he’s so close, and Dean can’t help focusing on the sensation as the roar in his ears subsides along with his nausea. “Your art, for instance. We have art, on our world. But compared to what you create? It’s nothing, just imitation of reality with no interpretation.” He smiles at Dean, just a bare twitch of his lips. “Even your food is art.”

“Damn straight it is,” says Dean, as he fumbles with the keys and finally gets the door to his apartment open. “Speaking of food, I could use something to eat. Sam, Cas?”

Sam nods, glancing at Cas. “Yeah, breaking into secret facilities always gives me an appetite.” When Dean starts to pull away towards the kitchen, Sam shakes his head. “Dude, you were just tortured by members of some freaky conspiracy or something. I can make sandwiches at least.” He stands, pointing at the couch. “You. Sit.”

“Yes sir.” Dean grins. “Taking control, Sammy? I like it.”

Sam rolls his eyes and heads into the kitchen, and Dean’s just settling on the couch when he comes back out with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel. “For your shoulder,” he says, eyes betraying a little bit of his worry. 

“Thanks,” Dean replies, pressing it gently to the swollen joint. In the fight and the excitement of flying with Cas he hadn’t realized how much it hurt, and the ice is cool and numbing against it. Sam nods firmly, shoulders relaxing a little as Dean continues to ice rather than tossing the towel aside, then heads back to the kitchen.

Cas stands beside the couch, hovering, and Dean rolls his eyes. “Dude, sit. You’re making me nervous.”

Cas sits beside him on the couch, stiffly. It's nothing like the night he vanished, when he'd leaned back into the couch and smiled and he'd–

Dean's not gonna think about the kiss. But Cas was having _fun_ , it seemed like. And yeah, Dean's had a kind of shitty few hours (although he's had much worse, back in his criminal days. Crowley and his goons couldn't hold a candle to Alastair). But Cas had saved him, Cas and Sam together. The crappy part is over, and Dean's ready to put it behind him for a few hours. They need to figure out what's going on, and who's involved, and all that, but that can wait until they've eaten and had a chance to decompress. "Hey," he says leaning in. "Seriously, Cas, thanks again."

"For what?" asks Cas, voice bitter. "If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have been taken at all. That's not even an argument."

Dean sighs. "Cas–"

Cas shakes his head and stands, striding to the window and staring out it at the parking lot. 

Dean stands with a groan and moves to stand beside him. "It's not your fault," he says. "It's Bela and that douchebag Crowley, Cas. Don't blame yourself."

"I'm not supposed to tell you anything about us," says Cas, still staring out the window. "Or take you flying, or any of that." He sighs. "You certainly aren't supposed to be able to hear my thoughts."

"Then why did I? I mean, you can hear mine, and that's not a big deal."

"I'm supposed to be a scientist, Dean. You aren't supposed to study _me._ " 

"Is that what this is to you? An experiment?" Dean feels something hot and uncomfortable building in his chest. "Was it an experiment last night, when you–when we–" 

"No." Cas is emphatic. "No, Dean, that was–that was me, doing what I wanted, rather than what I was told to do."

"Man, you can't follow orders all the time."

Cas sighs, "I think you're right, Dean. And I think my colleagues have forgotten why we started exploring space."

"Why did you start? I mean, I get why you'd leave your planet, but why do this? Why come and land and pair up like this?"

Cas turns, finally meeting Dean's eyes. "It was to _explore_ , Dean. To learn, and to meet other species, and to exchange knowledge to the benefit of all." He shakes his head. "And now–now we just come and we take their knowledge and leave them worse than before."

Dean opens his mouth to say–well, he’s got no idea what he’s going to say, but Sam walks in with a plate of sandwiches and sets it beside them. “Eat,” he says to Dean, then turns to Cas. “Do you eat ham? Bread? Is there something else I can get for you?”

“A sandwich is fine,” replies Cas. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam smiles as Cas and Dean both pick up sandwiches. 

There’s a beep from Sam’s phone, where it’s sitting on the table, and Sam picks it up with a frown that smoothes out as soon as he reads the message. “It’s Madison,” he says. “She says they’ve found something.” His voice is wary, nothing like the good humor he’d had before. “Dean–”

“You should go,” says Cas, interrupting. “They’ll be suspicious, otherwise.”

“You don’t think he’s safer here?” asks Dean.

Cas shakes his head. “It’s more likely that the only people who’ve seen his notes yet are the people monitoring him closely, like Crowley and his employees.” His mouth twitches up in a smile. “And it _is_ a secret, underground lab.”

“And I’m not the one who got kidnapped,” Sam says, standing. “I’m gonna go find out what’s up.” He glances at Dean. “Let me wrap that shoulder up, though. Looks like the swelling’s going down.”

Dean pulls the icepack away, wincing and tugging up the sleeve of his tee shirt. The joint does look better, though it’s still starting to form what’s going to be a monster bruise in the morning. But he lifts his arm as Sam picks up a strip of bandage to wrap around it.

Sam finishes the compress on Dean’s swollen shoulder, tying the fabric off just tight enough. He leans back, looking over his work critically. “You sure you’re good, Dean? You don’t need to go to a doctor or anything?”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, Sam. I’m good. I promise.” He glances at Cas, then back at Sam. “You’re, uh, not gonna write anymore about Cas, right?”

“ _No,_ Dean.”

“Good. Be careful, okay? Don’t do anything stupid, and call me when you get out.”

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

“Yeah?” Dean frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“I said don’t worry about it, Dean. Just trust me on that, okay?”

Dean sighs, but he’s fucking _exhausted_ and it just hit him like a freight train. The last thing he needs right now is an argument with his brother. They’re not gonna try anything again for a while, not with Cas back and watching over them, and he gives in. “Yeah, okay. Okay, Sam. Just, uh, be careful, okay? And call me if you need _anything._ ”

Sam nods. “You too, Dean.” He heads out, closing the door behind him.

Cas stares at Dean as the door shuts behind Sam, eyes bright and unblinking and fixed on Dean’s face.

“You okay, Cas?” asks Dean, perching on the back of the couch. “You look a little freaked.”

“I shouldn’t have left,” says Cas abruptly. “I shouldn’t have left you here alone.”

“Dude, I told you, I can take care of myself–” Dean starts, but Cas interrupts.

“No, Dean, obviously you can’t! If I hadn’t gotten there–”

“I would have been _fine._ I had a plan.”

Cas rolls his eyes, and the gesture is bizarrely human. “Did you forget I can read your mind? They were torturing you, and you had no way out. You could have died there, Dean!”

“You guys got me, though.” Dean’s voice has gone quiet, somber. “You and Sam. Like I said, I owe you big time.”

“You don’t owe me. If anything, I owe you. It’s my fault you were there, my fault they even knew you existed.”

Dean sighs, about to speak, but something in Cas's eyes cuts him off before he can continue the same old argument again.

Cas steps forward, and suddenly he’s very, very close. He narrows his eyes, staring into Dean’s, and slowly, slowly leans forward. Dean freezes in place, waiting, and Cas halts with his mouth barely inches from Dean’s. _Do you want this, too?_ he asks, voice halting in Dean’s head. _If you don’t–_

_I–yeah, yeah, Cas. I do._

Dean leans in, pressing his lips to Cas’s.

It’s nothing like last night. It’s careful and it’s dry and Cas’s lips are soft, softer than he could have imagined, and suddenly he’s nowhere near close enough. They open just a little under Dean’s, parting and fitting themselves against Dean’s, and Dean’s hands flutter up from where they’re hanging limply by his sides to curl around the sides of Cas’s face. 

Cas’s cheeks are rough with stubble under his hands and the bizarre thought flickers through his his mind that he doesn’t even know if Cas _shaves_ or if he’s just _manifesting_ the beard the way he manifests the clothes he’s wearing and against his mouth he feels Cas’s lips draw back in a smile. 

 _Yes,_ he says, fingers burying themselves in the short hair at the back of Dean’s head and letting his tongue brush the edge of Dean’s bottom lip. _Exactly._

Dean’s hands slide down of their own accord as he buries himself in Cas’s kiss. 

Cas is enthusiastic, hands seemingly _everywhere_ at once as he presses Dean down into the couch. Dean can feel him in his mind, flicking through Dean’s memories and expectations, his mental touch getting more and more heated. There’s brushing touches at Dean’s back, and across the underside of his thighs, and if he were more sober Dean would have some serious questions about the length of Cas’s arms but as it is he just moans into it and enjoys the ride.

His fingers trace Cas’s back and sides, running along hot skin that’s warmer than what he’s used to on a human and he shivers at the reminder that Cas is nothing like the people he’s fucked before. He’s redefined Dean’s whole definition of _people_.

He tugs at Cas’s clothes, pushing at them, and Cas’s fingers shove clumsily at buttons and zippers until Dean grunts and shoves them aside, making quick work of the clothing until both are shirtless, with pants pushed down to their thighs.

Dean rocks up, feeling the sweat between the two of them catch and slide on the head of his cock as Cas’s lips trace a path down the side of his neck. Cas’s mind brushes against Dean’s own, flicking through memories and desires and pulling at them like a how-to manual on arousing Dean Winchester.

There’s something slick and hot sliding down his crack, and Dean wonders faintly where the lube even _came_ from, but he’s not one to question a blessing like that.

But the hand just teases, drifting back and forth, slippery and warm, as Cas’s mouth trails hot and wet on Dean’s throat.

Dean loses himself in it, in the press of Cas’s body against his, in the feeling of smooth skin under his hands, and in the openness of Cas’s mind brushing his own. It’s not even words anymore, just a mirror of sensation bouncing between the two of them. Dean can feel Cas touching him, and he can feel his hands on Cas, but he can also feel both from the other sides, too. There’s the tingle deep in Cas’s muscles when Dean’s fingers brush along a rib, and the sensation of content and satisfaction when Dean gasps at the first teasing press at his rim. It dips in, first just a fingerwidth, then another and another as Dean relaxes into it. It’s filling him like nothing before, and he can’t help pushing back, trying to chase the heat and pressure.

Cas is above him, now, and he’s kissing Dean loosely, eyes wide and mouth slack as his fingers slide up to clench under Dean’s knees.

Dean’s gasping for air, trying to take in everything he’s feeling at once, and all he can do is let the sensations take over and ride it out as Cas’s hips flex and he slides deeper.

Cas rocks them together slowly, his whole body sliding against Dean’s, and Dean’s not sure how long he can stand the careful presses.

Everything’s fuzzy, a haze of desire and pleasure and pure _joy_ from Cas, and Dean’s mind doesn’t even bother trying to make sense of it anymore as what must be a finger finds its way to his mouth. He just laves it with his tongue, feeling Cas shudder.

His orgasm comes slow, building like a wave as fingers wrap around his cock and stroke it in time with the brushes against his prostate. When he finally comes, it’s like his whole body opens up and clenches at the same time and he hears Cas let out a whimper before stiffening and coming hot inside Dean.

There’s a moment where Dean can barely tell where one of them begins and the other ends, where they’re just _together_ in a way he couldn’t even describe if he tried. 

 

He comes slowly back to himself, extremities tingling, and stretches his hands and toes from where they’re clenched against the sheets. Gently, he nudges at Cas until they roll, landing on their sides, face to face.

Cas cradles his head against his chest as Dean’s hands slide down his back to brush the top of Cas’s ass. It’s all Dean can do to lift his head to study Cas’s face in the near-darkness.

Now that his eyes are adjusted to the dim room, he can see Cas’s features clearly, and he can’t help but smile at the very human, shell-shocked look on the alien face. Nothing about him right now screams _technologically advanced psychic alien_ ; instead, his hair is sticking up in curly clumps, his mouth is slightly open, lips red and puffy, and his eyes are wide, unfocused. He looks like someone whose mind has just been _blown_ by really, really great sex.

And it had been. Dean’s eyes are already trying to drift closed, the beers and the exertion of the day–and the night–catching up with him. He pulls away just a little, trying not to shiver at the cool air outside the blankets, and grabs his undershirt from where it’s been thrown to the side. He tries to sop up some of the mess of sweat and come between them, then tosses it aside.

When he looks back up at Cas, Cas is watching him. His eyes are still wide and open, but instead of the distracted, amazed look they’d had before, now they’re focused firmly on Dean’s face. Despite the fact that they’ve been naked together for an hour, Dean suddenly feels stripped bare by that gaze more deeply than just nudity. He shifts uncomfortably, hand curling around Cas’s hip, then releasing. “Hey, Cas, man, you all right?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” says Cas, still staring, but a hint of a smile curves his mouth upward the slightest bit. “Thank you.” He glances away, gaze following his hand grazing along Dean’s side.

“Uh, you’re welcome, I guess.” Dean shifts a little, trying to get comfortable, and Cas reaches out and curls them together and Dean relaxes. 

It’s better than any embrace Dean’s been in before, somehow, warmer and more _surrounding_ than he thought four limbs could be.

 _Shhh,_ says a voice in his mind. _Go to sleep, Dean._

Dean does.

***

Dean wakes up feeling warm, and like there are a lot more people in his bed than usual.

There’s an arm across his waist, and a leg wrapped around his own, and when he shifts he gets a face full of bare chest and pink-brown nipple and he smiles, still half-asleep. There’s a pleasant ache suffusing his whole body, and his morning wood is pressed tightly against Cas’s thigh.

Cas is moving, too, now, restless shifting as he wakes. His arm tightens around Dean, hand splaying over Dean’s belly. Dean’s curling closer, fingers wandering across Cas’s back, when the phone rings, loudly, right beside his ear.

He tries to sit up, but Cas is weirdly strong for–well, actually, Dean has no idea if he’s strong for his species, but he’s stronger than he would be as a human. He’s also grumbling under his breath and nuzzling his face into Dean’s hair, which is all kinds of adorable, but Dean manages to pull out an arm and grab his phone, bringing it to his ear. “Hello?” he mumbles, trying to stay quiet to keep from waking Cas anymore than he has to.

“Hey,” says Sam, on the other end. “So I got a new phone, one of those, uh, disposable phones, since I figure they’re listening to mine.”

Dean finally pulls away from Cas and sits on the edge of the bed, suddenly a lot more awake. “Okay?”

“So anyway, yeah, this line should be safe. I paid cash and everything.”

Dean rubs a hand across his eyes. “Yeah, Sam, I’m real proud of you. Learning to be a criminal again and all that.”

Sam’s famous bitchface is apparent even though the phone. “Seriously, Dean. It’s not like I haven’t done this before. It’s safer this way, you know that.”

“Yeah, no, I know. Good job. What’s so important that you had to call me at–” he checks the clock– “six in the morning?”

"I think I've figured out how to get Crowley off your tail. Permanently."

Dean perks up at this. "Yeah?"

"I talked to Victor and told him a little about what's going on. He says Crowley sounds like a guy they've been tracking." Dean hears paper rustling. "Apparently, he's a weapons dealer, black market trader, all-around creep."

"What kind of weapons he into?"

"The rarer the better. And apparently he's known for being able to get _anything_ , for the right price. Rumor has it that he's got a team of engineers, and if what the customer wants doesn't exist, he'll _make_ it exist."

"And there's a new threat in town," says Dean, glancing down at the alien that's still fast asleep on the bed.

"Exactly."

"So, what, you're just handing this all over to the FBI? Just because they pay me doesn’t mean I want them in my _life_ , Sam."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, no, I know. This is strictly off the clock. Vic and I are meeting up tonight and he's gonna bring me the files."

Cas stirs, curling closer and rubbing his cheek on Dean's thigh, then opens one eye blearily to stare at Dean. "You're very loud," he observes, voice even deeper than usual.

"Is that Cas?" asks Sam. "I thought you were asleep–" he stops. "You know what, I really don't want to know, do I." 

Dean grins. "What, you don't want to know more about alien biology?"

Sam is silent, but Dean can picture the pursed-lip look he's getting.

“I doubt he can build something that can injure one of us,” says Cas, wide awake now and sitting up beside Dean. “Although I’m learning not to underestimate human ingenuity.” Dean waggles his eyebrows suggestively at that, and Cas narrows his eyes. _You know what I mean, Dean. It might take a while, but there are a few things we’re vulnerable to._

 _Yeah?_ Dean can’t quite keep the worry out of his mind, and Cas brushes a reassuring touch across his mind.

_Very few._

“You never know, with guys like this,” says Sam, oblivious to the silent conversation. “From what Victor said, if anyone can do it, it’s Crowley.”

“And he’s got something on Bela, too,” says Dean, tearing his eyes away from Cas. “Got any idea what that might be?”

Sam sighs. “Dean, Bela’s got a lot of secrets.”

“No shit.”

“And you knew her better than most.”

It’s Dean’s turn to let out a huff of frustration. “This just isn’t coming together, Sam. There are too many pieces in play.”

“Let’s break it down, then,” says Sam. “I’ll get the intel on Crowley and do some digging over here into how he got ahold of my research. Why don’t you take on figuring out if Bela can be, uh, _convinced_ away from Crowley.”

“And I have some business to take care of,” says Cas, suddenly fully dressed again. “Dean, I’ll return shortly.” He hesitates. “Don’t panic, this time.”

He leans in carefully, pressing a kiss to Dean’s lips, then vanishes in a flutter of wings.

“So you and Cas, huh,” Sam’s grin is audible. “Couldn’t find a nice earthling, so you had to look further?”

“Shut it, Sam,” says Dean. “Seriously.”

“Okay, okay,” says Sam, smile still evident in his voice. “Anyway, I gotta go. Be careful, Dean.” His voice turns serious. “Bela’s not someone to mess around with. Don’t forget that.”

“Yeah, I know. She _shot_ you, remember?”

“Uh, yeah, Dean, I remember. Not exactly something a guy forgets.”

“You take care of yourself too, Sam.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. “You’re a civilian, now. Don’t do anything without calling first, okay?”

“Of course. Good luck.”

“Yeah, you too.” Dean hangs up the phone and sets it on the beside table, stretching. _Time to get to work._

***

Most of their old, mutual contacts are dead, in prison or worse, but there are still a few people Dean can count on for intel. Bobby hasn’t heard from her in years, but he’s heard rumors about her childhood in England. Apparently, she’s from a wealthy family. Some sort of mysterious circumstances left her orphaned and a billionaire before she turned fifteen, but he hasn’t found any more details.

“It’s all pretty hush-hush, Dean,” he says when Dean presses him. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t know.”

“This is important, Bobby,” Dean replies. “I think she’s being blackmailed.”

“And what, you decided to help her out of the goodness of your heart?” Bobby snorts. “Boy, I wasn’t born yesterday. What’s really going on here?”

Dean groans. “You know I can’t tell you, Bobby. I told you that.”

“Well then.” There’s a rustle as Bobby stands up and the clink of a bottle. “Guess I’ll just get back to my afternoon, then. Unless you’re interested in who might know more.”

“Bobby–”

“You’re in trouble, kid. I know that much. And I ain’t gonna help unless I know what kind, or else I might dig you even deeper in it.”

“I–” Dean shakes his head. “Yeah. I, uh, I’ve got some weird shit happening.”

“Oh, because that’s so unusual,” says Bobby.

“Not this weird.”

***

Bobby finally gives him the number of one Rufus Turner, along with a warning to bring a bottle of scotch along, the good stuff. Apparently Rufus knows more, or knows someone who knows more. Bobby’s not too clear on the details.

That’s why Dean’s at the door of a dilapidated cabin in the woods of North Dakota with a hundred bucks of Johnny Walker Blue in one hand while he rings the doorbell with the other.

There’s silence from inside and he waits, then presses it again. _Maybe it’s broken,_ he thinks, and knocks, hard.

There’s movement in the corner of his eye and he looks up, into the lens of a camera. It’s pivoting to point directly at him, and he takes a quick shuffle backwards unconsciously, and clears his throat. “Hey, uh, I’m Dean Winchester. Bobby’s friend?”

The camera doesn’t move, just stays focused on his face. “Bobby told me you might have some information we need.” When nothing happens, he holds up the bottle of scotch. “I thought this might help get things going.”

The door creaks open a few inches, then all the way. A sliver of a man’s face shows through, a scowl on his face that eases just a bit at the sight of the bottle. He eyes Dean for one long moment, then there’s the sound of a chain clanking and the door swings open. 

Rufus is a tall, thin black man, probably in his early sixties, and in the dimness of the house Dean can just barely make out a craggy face and furrowed brow. He steps back and gestures for Dean to step inside, then swings the door shut behind him and turns every other lock, then secures the chain. “So. Bobby sent you, then.”

Dean shrugs, trying to push down the anxiety being locked in a strange place builds up in him. “He told me you might have some information.”

Rufus lets out a snort and holds out a hand for the whiskey. “I told Bobby I’d let him know if I heard anything about Bela. That’s what I did.” He takes the bottle gently and hooks two glasses from a shelf, depositing them on the table, then sits. Dean waits a moment, but when Rufus pours a hefty measure in each glass he sits in the table’s other chair. “I’m not obligated to tell you anything more.”

Dean stays silent as Rufus takes a sip of the whiskey, closing his eyes as he swallows.

“But I suppose since you brought me this, I might as well tell you what I’ve got.” He leans back and drains the glass, then pours himself another. “Bela Talbot. I’ve been keeping an eye on her for a while now.”

“Talbot?”

“Her real name. She hasn’t used it in a while. Now let me tell the damn story.” Rufus gestures at Dean’s glass. “Drink up, kid.”

The whiskey _is_ good, Dean has to admit, and he keeps his mouth shut, waiting for Rufus to continue.

"She's not from around here, you know that much already. What you don't know, though, is where she came from." He stands and flips through a filing cabinet, pulling out a thick manila file folder. "I've got a buddy in England, and he caught wind of this a few years ago. He thought I might find it interesting." He narrows his eyes. "I heard You and Bela used to work together. That right?"

Dean shifts in his seat uncomfortably. "We, uh, crossed paths on a few jobs, yeah. Maybe ended up on the same side a couple times."

Rufus snorts. "You must be pretty damn stupid, to trust her more than once."

Dean opens his mouth to reply, then closes it, because honestly, he can't think of anything to say to that.

"Relax, kid," says Rufus. "She's pulled one over on better men than you." He leans back, swirling his glass and staring at Dean without blinking. "Bobby says you're on the straight and narrow now."

"Most of the time, yeah," Dean replies, shrugging. "You know the deal. Once your prints get in the system, it makes pulling jobs a lot harder."

"And your brother getting respectable wasn't a part of that?"

"That's not important." Dean's voice is firm, shutting down the conversation. "Tell me what you got about Bela."

Rufus grins, teeth white under his bushy mustache. "Guess I know where your weakness is. Touchy." But he sets the glass down and opens the file to a photo of a girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, in a black dress. It takes Dean a minute to realize it's Bela herself, fifteen, twenty years ago. "Bela Talbot, age fourteen. Just after her parents died under mysterious circumstances and she inherited a whole lotta money and even more suspicious connections." He shakes his head. "She's a cold one, if the rumors are true."

"Rumors?"

"That she was responsible. That she paid off someone to kill them."

Dean stares at the photo for a moment, finding traces of the woman he knew in the cool gaze of the girl in the picture. He knows Bela, or knew her, anyway, and knows that even for an obscene amount of money Bela wouldn't kill two people at the same time with such obvious motive and opportunity. She's more cautious, or maybe devious.

And then he thinks about a job they worked, back when they were running together. There'd been a little girl, probably nine or ten, who'd been kidnapped. They'd been hired by the parents to find her, bring her back, and exact their revenge on the kidnappers.

They'd done their jobs to the letter, easily discovering her location and getting her out the back way. But what he remembers most is how Bela had _transformed_ around the girl, gentle and careful, and how when the kid told them the men had hurt her she'd risen up like an avenging goddess to kill them all, brutally and quickly.

She'd brushed off Dean's questions afterwards, when the girl was back with her family and they'd been paid, but he couldn't get it out of his head for weeks afterwards.

 _Maybe she had a reason to kill her parents,_ he thinks, shuddering, and clears his throat. "So was there any evidence?"

Rufus nods. "A whole lot of it, yeah. None of it conclusive, though." He flips through the next few pages and suddenly there's a face Dean recognizes. He shoots out a hand and snags the corner of a photo, pulling it out. "What's this?"

Rufus squints at it. "The Talbot family Christmas party, I believe. Just a few months before their deaths."

 _And there’s Crowley,_ thinks Dean. _Gotcha._

A long finger pokes at Crowley’s face. “This who you’re looking at?”

Dean nods. 

“Fergus Crowley. Lawyer, patriot, and all-around scumbag.” He shakes his head. “If Bela did put out a hit on her parents, I’d put good money on Crowley being involved.”

“What, he’s a lawyer _and_ a hitman?”

Rufus lets out a harsh laugh. “Nothing so crude. He’d never do the killing himself. But he’d be a conduit for it. A connector. He’d have the details.” He shakes his head. “And he’d keep evidence. He’d _own_ her, after that.”

“Huh.” It’s Dean’s turn to lean back in his chair and sip thoughtfully at his whiskey. 

“Crowley isn’t someone to mess around with, kid. Now I don’t know you, and I don’t give a crap about you, but Bobby does, so for his sake, I’m just warning you.” His eyes are intense, fixed on Dean’s face. “Whatever he’s got on Bela, whatever he’s getting on _you_ , you better watch out. Because he’s bad news.”

“I’m kind of getting that, yeah.” 

“Good.” Rufus stands. “Now that’s settled–” He picks up Dean’s glass and sets it in the sink. “I’m busy.”

Dean blinks for a second, then stands as well, holding a hand out. “Thanks, Rufus. That was actually really helpful.”

Rufus rolls his eyes, ignoring the hand. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”

Dean nods, awkwardly dropping his hand to his side, and heads for the door.

***

He calls Sam, burner phone to burner phone, to give him the story. Sam heads to the Bureau to give Victor the scoop, and Dean’s glad to be missing out on that. The idea of actually entering the Hoover Building still gives him the willies, even after years on the right side of the law. And he doesn’t envy Sam the conversation about Castiel.

It seems to go better than expected, though, because Sam texts with an update from Victor just an hour into the drive.

Bela isn’t exactly hard to find, not if you know her. She’s never been particularly hidden, not when she’s had people like Dean to set up for falls and had her money to fall back on. Although now that Dean knows more, he wonders if all that openness is just more of the act of _Bela Talbot, socialite thief._

She’s not in-the-phonebook easy to find, but Dean’s got a pretty good idea of how to get in touch. It only takes a few calls before he’s got an address and he’s on his way there.

It’s an upscale neighborhood, of course; a fancy part of the city center with brownstones and iron railings and fucking decorative lampposts, and Dean feels eyes on the back of his neck as he walks up to the door in his ratty jeans and leather jacket.

He doesn’t ring the bell, because he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t answer. Instead, he checks for cameras, winking up at the one that’s Bela’s style tucked in the grout of the marble tiles on the wall, then pops the front of the door buzzer panel off with a screwdriver.

It’s quick work to rewire it and buzz himself in, and he makes sure to reset it to its normal functionality before slipping inside. No point in messing with the lives of Bela’s neighbors; as far as he knows, they’re just normal people who happen to live near a criminal millionaire.

Her door looks just like all the others, which surprises Dean, somehow. He’d expected–well, he’s not really sure what, but a plain door with a simple lock set in dark wood wasn’t it. The numbers are brass and crisp, the gloss untarnished, and it takes him a second to get ready to knock.

He hasn’t seen Bela in years, not really. The kidnapping doesn’t count. Before that, the last time they’d been in the same room was when she’d left him for the cops to find while she high-tailed it to wherever the hell she went. He’d made a deal, yeah, meeting Victor and getting his gig with the Bureau, but it’d been a shitty thing to do and he’s not sure he’s forgiven her, or if he ever will, really. Forgiveness isn’t something he’s big on, unless you’re family.

He knocks, three quick raps of his knuckles, then steps back automatically just in case there’s some sort of booby trap.

But the door swings open smoothly, and there’s Bela, casually elegant in a plunging neckline and dark jeans. 

“Dean Winchester,” she says, mouth stretching in a slow smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He steps forward, reaching out to push past her. “Cut the crap, Bela. Let me in.”

She stops him with a firm hand on his chest. “Manners, Dean. You’re not going to just barge into my home, are you?”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, okay, we can do it your way.” He steps back and plasters a smile on his face. “Hi, Bela. Great to see you. Con anyone lately? Maybe some light kidnapping?”

Bela rolls her eyes. “Fine, you brute. Just get inside before the neighbors start to get curious.” She steps back, and Dean follows her into the apartment. The door swings shut behind her, and he grins when he sees the three additional locks on the inside of the door that aren’t visible from the hallway.

She leans on the counter, watching him, arms crossed over her chest. “What do you want?”

For a minute, he considers lying, or dancing around the subject, but he knows that’s not going to go anywhere.

“I want Crowley.”

Something flickers in her eyes. If it were anyone else, he’d call it fear. She turns to a cabinet and pulls it open, flicking a switch, and the hiss of white noise fills the air.

She turns back to Dean, all studied nonchalance. “Crowley?”

“Fergus Crowley. You know, the guy who _kidnapped_ me? You probably remember. You were taking his orders, after all.” 

Her face closes like a door has been slammed. “You don’t know _anything_.”

“I know he’s got something on you, Bela.” He leans closer. “I know you asked him for a favor, and now he’s come calling.”

She turns to the cupboard, pulling down a mug, and grabs the kettle off the stove to fill it with water. “That was a long time ago.”

Dean keeps his mouth shut as she goes about the preparations for tea. He remembers this, vaguely–he’s not sure if it’s a British thing or a Bela thing, or what, but the few moments of emotional stress he’d seen her experience, back in the day, had been met with a cup of tea.

Finally she’s got both hands wrapped around her mug, and she turns back to him. “There’s nothing I can do for you,” she says, voice tired. “Don’t you think I tried to get away from him? There’s nowhere he can’t find you.”

“Did he tell you to turn me in?” 

Bela rolls her eyes. “Dean, you didn’t even register on his radar until you found that alien. No, that was just convenient.”

“Good to know.”

She sighs and sips her tea. “No, he didn’t find me again until ten years had passed.” She grimaces. “I thought he’d forgotten. Moved on. Decided that the favor wasn’t worth calling in, or something. I moved, I changed my name, I thought I’d shaken him.” She shakes her head. “But ten years to the day, there he was, in my living room.” Her lips purse. “The man does has a sense of drama.”

“So, what, he just tells you to jump and that’s what you do, now?”

“It’s not ideal,” she says. “But I do what I have to.” She meets Dean’s eyes. “I wasn’t thrilled to kidnap you, Dean. I’m almost _fond_ of you, you know. You’re like a–a puppy, or a guinea pig. But if I didn’t–”

“What does he have on you, Bela?” asks Dean, hearing a note of pleading in his voice and hating it. “We can take him down, you know.”

“What, you? And your brother, maybe? _Please_.” She sets her mug down with a _thunk_. “You can barely dress yourselves.”

“Not just us,” he says, quietly, eyes flicking to the white noise generator. He steps closer. “We’ve got more than that.”

She looks confused for a moment, then her eyes clear into distain. “The feds, Dean? Those clowns?”

“Hey, not all of them suck. We’ve got a contact who’s been working this Crowley thing a while now. He can help.”

The hope that flickers in Bela’s face is squashed as quickly as it appears. “I don’t think anyone can help.”

“I think he can.” Dean pulls out the phone, flicking through messages until he finds the file from Sam. “Take a look.”

It’s information on Crowley, on his origins, on his criminal activities. But it’s all circumstantial, the file notes. Without a witness willing to come forward, there’s nothing they can do.

“Dean–” Bela sets the phone down carefully. “I can’t–”

“Yeah, Bela, you _can._ ” Dean steps closer, puts his hand on her shoulder, carefully. “Look, I _know_ you did what you had to do. I know it was probably not legal, or something that most people understand, but I get it. And you’ve been punished enough, don’t you think?”

She pulls away, shaking his hand off. “The day I need your pity, Dean Winchester, is the day I quit stealing and join a _nunnery_.” She glances at the phone again. “All right. I’ll do it.” She tosses the phone at Dean, who fumbles it for a second before catching it. “Take me to your contact.”

***

Victor meets them at a cafe a few miles from the building, to Dean’s (and, he suspects, Bela’s) relief. It’s the three of them and Sam, sitting around a booth, and Dean has a moment where the whole thing seems just– _surreal_. There’s him, reformed criminal on the right side of the law; his brother, renowned scientist; their FBI buddy; and the woman who turned his life around when she betrayed him. It might as well be a crappy disaster movie.

“So,” says Victor, leaning back. “You’re Bela. Heard a lot about you.” His eyes trace her face, and she smirks.

“And I’ve heard so little about you.” Bela glances down at the menu. “Dean, I suppose you’re still overly attached to pie?”

Victor blinks, then leans in. “Tell me about Crowley.”

“It’s all business with you, isn’t it?” replies Bela, and Dean meets Sam’s gaze with a raised eyebrow.

He’s never really thought of what Victor’s life is like outside of the FBI. It’s not as if they hang out, really, outside of work: yeah, Vic’s a good guy, but there’s still that weird tension of law vs. lawless between them. It’s a shame, really, because he’s pretty sure they could have been friends in another life.

But the way he’s looking at Bela, leaned forward with his attention rapt on her face? It makes Dean wonder if maybe Victor has as much trouble as Dean does getting a date. 

 _Bela’s a catch, if you like people who’d just as soon rob you and leave you for dead than kiss you goodnight. But it looks like Victor’s gonna have to try harder than that,_ he thinks. _He and Bela, though–they both could do worse._

He’s feeling pretty good about their chances against Crowley, with these two on their side.

***

They leave Victor and Bela to confer, and to get her safely ensconced in Witness Protection while Crowley is found, and head back to Dean’s apartment.

They’re just getting their coats off when there’s a sudden breeze through the living room.

“We’re going to call a full meeting of the Ankero Assembly.” Cas appears beside Dean with a whisper of wings. “They need me to return soon. It’s scheduled for a few hours from now, but there are preparations to make.”

“It’s that easy to just jump across the universe?” asks Sam.

Cas shrugs, and it’s an oddly human gesture, a little forced. “It’s not– _easy._ I couldn’t make the journey more than a few times in an Earth day before I exhausted myself. But yes, it’s much easier than your methods of travel.”

“That’s awesome, Cas, really,” says Dean. “But, uh, what’s this Assembly? Are they like Congress or something?”

Cas shakes his head. “More like your United Nations, I think.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts for a moment. “You have to understand, for us, a society without any mental communication is bizarre. The way your politicians debate and argue for months on end? It just wouldn’t work for us.”

“So what, then? You just do it all in your heads?” It’s obvious Dean finds this fascinating, leaning in and giving Cas his full attention.

“And we do it much, much more quickly. There’s much more opportunity for deceit or bluffing when everyone’s mind is shut to you.” He sighs. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just–the way things _are_ , on my world.”

“But your world–it has one government, then?” Sam asks.

Cas sighs. “It’s not quite that simple. Governments–they aren’t the way they are here, either. We have different groups, different histories for segments of the population, different gatherings of people, but we rule by consensus more than by any sort of voting process.”

"You just all agree?" Dean looks baffled. "Or obviously you don't, or you wouldn't have to go there and talk about it, right?"

"Our connections are stronger with physical proximity and emotional closeness," Cas explains.

"So if you don't know someone, and they're not right nearby–"

"I can't hear them, and they can't hear me. Not well, anyway." 

"Huh. Sam looks thoughtful. "And with humans–"

"Dean is the only human who's been able to hear me." He tilts his head, examining Dean closely. "But then, I've bonded to him. As much of a surprise as that is, it would be even stranger for someone else to be able to hear me."

“Huh.” Sam looks thoughtful.

“Yes,” says Cas, smiling. “I can hear you, Sam.”

Sam’s face turns delighted. “Oh man, that’s so cool.”

“Hey,” says Dean, “Science is great and all, but Cas, what’s the meeting gonna do? You’re coming back, right?”

Cas’s eyes slide away. “I hope so.”

“You hope?”

“If the program is cancelled–” he sighs. “I’m not sure, Dean.” He takes a deep breath. “I could take you, if you would like,” says Cas quietly, watching the two humans out of the corner of his eye.

“Wait, you mean you want us to come with you?” asks Sam, staring at him. “To your homeworld?”

Cas glances at him, then at Dean. “It would be helpful for my peers to meet you both, and to be able to take a look at what you’ve seen of our behavior here. I’d bring you back, of course, regardless of what the council decides.”

“It means flying with you, though, right?” asks Sam. “Dean, maybe you should–”

“Hey, I’m fine,” says Dean. “If you’re going, I’m going.” He gives a smile that’s a lot more confident than he feels. “Besides, I trust Cas more than some random pilot in a flying metal tube.” He shifts a little, fists clenching. “Let’s do this.”

Sam stares at him. “What, right now?”

“Might as well get it over with,” says Dean, eyes flicking to Cas. “Right, Cas?”

“It’s not too late to stay here,” Cas says as they step into the parking lot. “I can handle my people. The evidence in my memories is enough.”

“No, dude, I told you, we’re coming,” says Dean. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“It’s a trip millions of times further than I’ve taken you on Earth, Dean,” says Cas, still dubious. “It won’t be easy on you.” He glances at Sam. “Either of you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Sam. “It’s our planet, and you’re on our side. If you need us, we’ll be there.”

“Don’t you have work to do here? Catching the men who help you captive, Dean?”

“Nah, we handed that job off the the FBI,” Dean replies. “Take a look.”

Cas squints, tilting his head as he flips through Dean’s memories, then nods. "All right," he says, sighing. “Prepare yourselves.” He takes a deep breath, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his jaw. But instead of the two fingers poking him in the forehead, a hand cups his cheek. It's a brief moment of comfort before the terrifying chaos of flight.

This trip seems to go on for an eternity. It's nothing like before, when Cas teleported them no more than a hundred miles; comparing that trip to this one is like comparing a papercut to a severed arm.

The only thing that keeps him from losing his mind is Cas's fingers on his cheek, anchoring him.

It ends, finally, and Dean's so relieved he slumps to the ground and rests his hands on the surface, not sure if he's going to vomit or lose consciousness or both.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see white walls and Cas's legs and Sam, who doesn't look all that much better off. 

He tries to fight down the blackness that's sweeping in his brain but he can't quite do it. The world goes dark and the last thing he remembers is a hand on his hair before he blacks out.

***

Dean’s been awake for what seems like hours, but no one’s come to tell them if they’re supposed to go somewhere, or anything. There’s no way to measure time in the compound, Dean thinks. He wonders if it’s because they’ve all got some kind of shared, internal clock or something, but whatever it is, it’s weirdly uncomfortable to have no idea how long he’d slept. It’s also really, really quiet, since no one talks out loud.

Sam’s flipping through pages of some sort of paper-like stuff, helpfully translated into English, and he’s completely engrossed.

 _What’s it like_ , he wonders, _living life totally underground like this?_

 _I thought it was comforting,_ says Cas, suddenly in Dean’s head, _but after seeing Earth, I’m not so sure. Hello, Dean._

He’s standing in the doorway, and Dean smiles, relieved to see a familiar face. “Hey, Cas.”

“They’re ready for my audience. I thought you two might want to observe.”

Dean stands, stretching, as Sam puts the documents back in order as quickly as he can and hurries to follow. 

“Come with me,” says Cas, and starts down a long corridor. 

There’s a few twists and turns, but it leads them to a closed door. Cas puts a hand on the handle, then turns to them both. “Just–don’t say anything,” he says, and opens the door.

The auditorium is _huge_ , and weirdly similar to the one from Star Wars Episode I, with sharply curved sides and a balcony thing for each Ankero.

There's something odd about them, though, something different, and Dean's not quite sure what it is until he glances at Cas and nearly falls over in shock.

Cas is– _definitely not human._ Dean knew that, obviously, but there's a difference between knowing the guy you slept with isn't from your neighborhood, and seeing him casually rolling down a platform, bare chested, on at least eight thick, smooth tentacles.

"What the hell?" He whispers, and Cas's voice sounds in his head.

 _I'm sorry Dean, I didn't know your perception would shift like this._ He sounds apologetic. _This is much truer to our natural form, though your human senses can't actually perceive that._

_You have tentacles._

_Appendages, and pay attention._

A block of what looks like stone appears behind him and Sam and Dean sits when Cas gestures at it. Sam joins in, grinning.

Cas glides forward, graceful on the multitude of limbs, and looks out at the crowd. _Thank you for your presence,_ he says, and his voice is different, somehow, wider and louder and nothing like the intimate curl of it inside of Dean's head. _I've come before you with a case against Metatron and his agents on the planet of Earth._

Dean glances at Sam, who's staring, rapt, out at the crowd, and shifts, trying to get comfortable on the stone. It sounds like it's going to be a long day of legal jargon. Aliens are cool, but he's pretty sure politics and court cases are dull in every language.

 _That's where you're wrong,_ says Cas, only to him, and a picture forms in Dean's head. It's the Earth, and a sudden pang rises up in his throat as he realizes he's not on it. But the feeling is pushed aside as the image zooms in and starts flashing through a series of images and sounds. They speed up until they're too fast for Dean to comprehend, and he opens his eyes, glancing at Sam through the images superimposed on his vision. Even Sam's looking a little green, and Cas glances their way and suddenly the visions stop. It looks like they're continuing for everyone else, because the hall is silent around them for the next few minutes.

Sam pulls out a notebook and starts writing, as what must be Cas's psychic testimony continues. Dean just stares out at the room, and at Cas, and at his wide, bare shoulders and the place where the dip of his muscled back fades into smooth, purple skin over appendages that start the width of Dean's thigh and slim down to a finger's width where they curl up from the floor.

 _Tentacles,_ he thinks, and shakes his head. _My life is weird._

Finally, the Ankero across the room start shifting again, rippling their limbs and staring at Cas. There's some sort of conversation going on that the two humans in the room aren't privy to, but it feels like a decision is reached.

 _Dean, Sam, it’s your turn,_ says Cas, and the two of them stand, Dean fighting the panic building in his chest as he takes a deep breath. Cas’s familiar touch brushes his mind, and then the feeling amplifies as Cas broadcasts their thoughts to the whole chamber. He pulls out memory after memory of the Ankero’s presence, through news articles and through Dean’s own impressions, and Dean hears murmurs reflected through the psychic link.

Finally, Cas withdraws, first with the big link, and then with a quiet _thank you_ , his own presence. He nods up at the beings all around, moving in a complete circle, before bowing to the largest platform, the one directly in front of them that's empty save a tall spire of stone, and turns, beckoning to Dean and Sam to follow him. It's only once they're through the door and alone in a hallway that he stops and moves to face them.

"So?" says Dean, impatient. “What’s going on?”

Cas sighs. I’ve been appointed the official ambassador to Earth.” Somehow he’s back in his suit and legs and when he shifts, it’s with his feet rather than the mass of tentacles. Dean’s not sure if he’s glad for the familiarity, or weirded out knowing that there’s something else underneath it.

“What does that mean?” asks Sam, glancing back towards the audience chamber.

“It means it’s my responsibility to manage the Ankero on Earth, and who gets to join us. It also means I am responsible for finding the people who lost track of our mission and bringing them back for trial.”

“All that in a few minutes?”

Dean answers this one, glancing to Cas for confirmation. “They’re telepaths, Sam. Think about it.”

Cas smiles at Dean, fond. “Dean is right. Like I said, our government is run through a sort of consensus, where it’s the voice of the majority who makes decisions. Anyone on Anara–any of us, anyway–can sense the overall structure, and if enough aren’t content with it, it changes.” He narrows his eyes, focusing on Dean’s face, then shakes his head. “It’s much more efficient than your system.” He shifts, and Dean remembers a bone he has to pick with Cas.

"I still can't believe you have _tentacles_ and you didn't tell me," he complains.

Sam starts laughing. “Dream come true for you, Dean. You’ve always wanted to date a tentacle monster.” 

Dean narrows his eyes at Cas, who’s back to his usual human appearance, as something occurs to him. “So when we–that was your–”

“My appendages, yes.” He narrows his eyes at Dean. “Is that a problem?”

“I–” Dean thinks about it a minute. As much as he hates to admit it, Sam is right about the tentacle thing. His porn collection can attest to that. This might have fewer Asian schoolgirls than he imagined, but it’s not like there’s no precedent here. And Cas is awesome, so–he shakes his head. “No. Nope. No problem.”

Sam makes a gagging sound, and Dean make a face at him before he turns toward Cas. “So–you’re coming back, then? To Earth? And you’re staying for good?”

Cas smiles. “I’m staying for good.” He leans into Dean, their shoulders pressing together for a brief moment, then lifts his arms to both Winchesters’ foreheads. “Ready?”

“Not really,” says Dean, as Sam nods.

Cas’s fingers touch their brows and the sound of wings fills their ears. The last thing Dean hears in his head before the darkness of flight is Cas’s voice, whispering, _We’re going home._

 


End file.
